Memento Mori
by chromeknickers
Summary: I suspect Potter always imagined himself dying honourably in battle or saving some poor sod's soul. He didn't. And, for that, I was smugly appreciative. No slash.


**Memento Mori**

I once knew someone who believed that drowning might be an easy way to go, even pleasant, until he almost drowned in the lake by my house. My father, on the other hand, never contemplated his death. Instead he somehow believed himself to be immortal, stubbornly refusing his own mortality right up until the very end. My views, I suppose, lay somewhere in the middle. I knew I would die, but I had always romanticised it. Once, _long_ago, I even imagined for myself a clandestine burial with full honours after some heroic Death Eater feat. But all I got out of the war was a scar, a few fractures, and a broken nose from a collision with Weasley's fist.

Potter—well, I suspect Potter always imagined himself dying honourably in battle or saving some poor sod's soul. He didn't. And for that I was smugly appreciative. Instead, Potter went the good old-fashioned way: heart failure and old age.

The day he died it seemed as though the entire world had been put on pause, covered by a death shroud of gloom as they mourned the passing of a legend. His funeral was one of unparalleled pomp, the greatest fanfare of the century. The wizarding world stood united under a single banner of loss and hope, celebrating the life of a fallen hero, their bleeding saviour.

How very touching.

I'm loath to admit that even I attended the ceremony, hidden in the background—and I say 'hidden' in the most dignified, least cowardly way imaginable. Afterwards, I managed to avoid the press and slither my way back into carefully calculated obscurity, yet I couldn't stay away for long. Call it a guilty conscience; call it an act of remorse; call it a bloody leap of faith. While I will never admit to any of it, I will confess that the need to say my piece to the damnable fool was persistent and palpable. And so like a foolish Gryffindor, I went back to face him . . . alone.

It took a solid month for the blubbering masses to dissipate from Godric's Hollow, slowly ebbing from the place where his body was put to rest. I waited until nightfall, like a common thief, until the cemetery was empty and blanketed in darkness. Although I was conscious of my baser actions, unbefitting of a Malfoy, I felt slightly exhilarated like a teenager sneaking out at night.

I set my wand alight and travelled the well-worn path, passing the numerous white gravestones, each inscribed with its own epithet—its own variation of _sum quod eris_. I remember thinking how utterly petty it was to have something like that engraved on your tombstone for your children to read, but old men can be downright cantankerous when coming to the end of that mortal coil.

I pressed onward and made my way to the Hero section of the cemetery. Potter's grave was all the way at the back, a spiralling mass of pure-white marble. No mausoleum for the Potters, although he certainly could have afforded one. Beside his marble sepulchre were his parents' graves, marked in glossy obsidian. I passed them by, barely sparing them a glance, as I allowed my eyes to scan over his tomb—his monument. 'Loving Father, Devoted Husband, and Steadfast Friend' it read. Below the balderdash was a simple inscription, not marked with the moniker that I had expected, such as 'He Who Lived' or 'Saviour of the Wizarding World' or even 'Hero'. Instead, his epithet was common and universal: _a__mor fati et memento vivere_.

This irritated me more than I would have liked to admit. Instead of dwelling on its meaning, I opted to curse him for his longevity. For eighty years the man had made me wait to say my piece. _Eighty_ years. I reached out and lightly tapped the top of his gravestone with my cane, as though accusingly prodding his chest. It was a childish act and an uncharacteristically informal gesture on my part.

"You're a stubborn bastard, you know that, Potter?"

Those weren't the words that I had rehearsed in my head. Sure, I had thought them from time to time; I even believed them. I was rather annoyed that The Boy Who Lived took so bloody long to die, but that wasn't what rattled me. It was difficult for me to admit what I had kept deep inside myself for so long.

It was impossible for me to tell him that I was sorry.

Truth be told, I was never one to apologise or allow myself to feel strong emotions, except for hatred and envy. Tears were no different; if they were going to come, they would come, but I knew they wouldn't. In that moment, facing his grave, I felt neither hate nor sorrow. What I felt was shame—shame for not having the courage to face the man when he was alive—and pity for the rest of the world who had lost their hero.

But there was no sorrow.

As I stood in front of his tomb—and I say 'stood', like I was some sort of monolith instead of a bent old man—I could understand everyone else's loss. I could understand Potter's importance, but I couldn't bring myself to say any of this aloud. I was mute, unable to confess that he was right, and that I was grateful—grateful that he had saved my life all those years ago. I _wanted_ to confess my sins; I _wanted_ to be forgiven. But wanting wasn't the same thing as doing and changing an old man's mindset was not nearly as easy as a chameleon changing its colours. I was who I was, and I wasn't ready or willing to change.

"When I die, Potter, I had better not see you in the afterlife!"

No sooner had the threat left my mouth when a feeling of great relief washed over me. It was though a great burden had been lifted from me. Was this absolution? I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, feeling content for the first time in years. The euphoria, however, wouldn't last long.

"I'm afraid that the rumours of my death have been _greatly_ exaggerated."

I opened my eyes and spun around, raising my wand in defence. There stood Potter, the 'glorious' bastard in question. It was impossible but unmistakable—the light from my wand clearly illuminating his face. He was still sporting that ridiculous mop of unruly dark hair and the large, rounded spectacles that I remembered from my youth. He was Potter as a teenager—the Potter I knew before our lives conveniently parted.

"At least that's what I'd say if anyone living could actually hear me speak," Potter added casually, shrugging slightly before sliding his hands into his pockets.

I stood silent, agape, wondering why Potter was standing at his own grave, conversing with me. It had to have been a dream.

"Taking the piss are we, Potter?" I asked, unsure of what else to say or do but continue with the snarky banter. "It seems that being dead has done nothing for your sense of humour."

He smiled, a condescending smile yet somehow polite at the same time. "My apologies, Malfoy, but I'm afraid that it will not improve as our conversation progresses."

I frowned, watching him stand tall, comfortable in his gangly teenage form as he deliberately withdrew a hand from his pocket and raked his fingers through his floppy fringe. A silent breeze wafted between us, and I noticed how the wind didn't move a hair on his body—his solid body. It was then when reality finally sunk in, and I regarded him with critical eyes. Solid limbs, chest rising and falling with the inhale and exhale of air, a young man instead of an old one? This form was corporeal, not ghostly, yet it wasn't altogether real. I had no idea how this was even possible.

"You're dead," I stated dumbly.

"Yes."

"But you're—you're not a _ghost_," I said, stating yet another obvious fact.

"Spot on, Malfoy," he remarked dryly, attempting levity at my expense. "Nothing gets past you."

I scowled, annoyed at his casual impertinence. "So what is this then—a dream?"

"Not exactly," he answered vaguely, taking a step forward as I took a step back.

He smiled, somewhat entertained by my apparent uneasiness.

"Did you know that my great-granddaughter was born the exact moment I died?" he began conversationally, walking past me tun run a finger lightly along his father's tombstone that stood adjacent to his own. "It was one of those rare twin occurrences—a bit of cosmic irony, if you will. In fact, we were both in the same hospital when it happened: she entering the world, I leaving it."

I shook my head, confused and irate. Leave it to Potter to perform a miracle or some sort of unexplainable feat and then start an idle conversation about nothing. "What does any of this have to do with what I just asked you?"

He smirked. Not a typical smirk, but it was impudent nonetheless. "You never were exceptionally bright were you, Malfoy?"

I raised my hands in frustration. I was never patient my entire life, and I especially couldn't take a joke made at my expense—not issued by Potter of all people. "I didn't realise that this was a test."

Potter's smirk morphed into a genuine smile and he snapped his fingers. Instantly, the graveyard was lit up, as though Potter had just turned on a bright white light. I was blinded at first, but then my eyes quickly adjusted, and it was as though it was daylight instead of night. I glanced around the cemetery. Everything seemed too crisp, too clean, too sterile.

"In the end, everything's a test," he spoke enigmatically.

How was I to react to a statement like that? I sighed. I fumed. I cursed. I raged—all internally, of course. It felt as though someone was playing an elaborate, cruel joke on me.

"So what am I supposed to infer from your story about you and your great-granddaughter—this cosmic irony you speak of?" I spat bitterly.

Potter shrugged. "I had no idea that my granddaughter was even in labour at the hospital until _after_ I died."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't feel bad about my happenstance," he said, taking a step closer, "'cause I know you don't." He peered above the rims of his spectacles. "You're not meant to feel regret or sadness in the afterlife. At least, I don't think you are . . ." He paused, looking up at me thoughtfully. "_You_ might be different though."

"What?"

He smiled at my slack-jawed response and leant against his own tomb. "In death I may have become omnipotent in _earthly_matters, but I'm not exactly Hermione when it comes to figuring out the dynamics of celestial affairs." He glanced upwards at the bright sky.

I followed his gaze and then paused, snapping my head back down to stare at him incredulously. "Wait. Hold on. Afterlife?"

His smile widened. "Sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you, Malfoy, since I'm certainly not here to answer your questions about the afterlife." He pushed off his tomb and ran his fingers through his hair again. "And, to be quite honest, I'm not exactly sorry either. I just figured that familiar expressions might provide you with some comfort, making this situation seem more . . . normal."

Yes, familiar expressions and desultory comments were bound to put me at ease. This was no trivial subject though, and I was getting downright cantankerous with his evasiveness. He was talking about my life, or lack thereof, for Merlin's sake.

"I'm . . . dead?"

"'Fraid so," he replied with a curt nod. "I know you didn't want to see me in the afterlife, Malfoy, but unfortunately your hollow threat didn't hold any weight with the Powers That Be."

I stared at him like he was a novel I had to translate. "The Powers That Be?"

"It's a blanket term." He waved his hand dismissively, as though this wasn't a subject to concern myself with. "I suppose one could call them fate or kismet incarnate." A barely perceptible scowl graced his features, as though remembering something unpleasant. "They're quite meddlesome and annoying when it comes to granting wishes, often attempting to be ironic."

I blinked. "How so?"

He let out a short breath through his nose. "Well, they did choose to send me to inform you of your own death," he intoned, and then chortled. "It's somewhat funny, when you think about it. Why does someone who's dead need to be notified of something so obvious?" He lifted his palms and then brought a hand to the back of his neck. "I guess death takes a bit of getting used to."

"I guess so . . ." I agreed dumbly, still trying to register what he was telling me. I was dead just like he was. But why did I still look old while he looked young? "Why are you young, and I'm old?" I asked, vocalising my thoughts.

"It's all what you make of it," he answered simply with a shrug. "I was old when I was told I was dead."

He bent down and picked up a pebble, lobbing it at me. I caught it, opting to drop my cane instead of my wand. I noted the smooth sleekness of the stone and its colour—a white-gold, almost metallic in texture. The wrinkles that had once lined my palm were gone, and my skin was now taut. I dropped the pebble and reached up to touch my face, feeling the same smoothness and hard lines. I stood up straight, no longer bent. I could feel youth reinvigorate my body, yet this change meant nothing to me.

"So who gave you the news of your death—Dumbledore?" I asked, sliding my wand into my pocket.

Potter shook his head, disgruntled. "No. I had hoped it would be Dumbledore or my parents, but instead I got _Snape_." He flicked a piece of dirt off his palm and toed the tip of his shoe into the gravel. "He exacted quite a bit of pleasure out of it, too, but I suppose the man was due some sort of cruel joy."

"And I got you," I muttered darkly.

He laughed. "Like I said, _they_ are buggers for torment and irony." He pointed a finger at me. "Just be grateful that your final moments were compelling—like your flashback to the scene at my grave." He lowered his finger and clicked his tongue along his incisor. "My last thoughts were of vomit-flavoured jelly beans."

I sneered. "It wasn't about catching the Snitch or performing some Potter-esque form of heroism?"

"Not exactly as epic as I would have liked either." He grimaced. "But then I wasn't exactly in my right mind in the end."

I regarded him with a distant blankness, which he didn't seem all that perturbed by—as though he had expected such a reaction. I still couldn't wrap my head around the concept of a benevolent or almighty power playing with our souls for amusement. However, I did live in a world of magic and dragons, so anything was possible—especially in the afterlife.

"Don't worry," he said in an oddly comforting voice, "it's not so bad being dead." He turned his palms upward and titled his head. "I mean it's not terribly exciting, but nothing here is really measured in terms of feelings or expectations or even logic—religion doesn't even apply here, unless you want it to."

I sighed, trying to comprehend what he was saying. It made sense, yet at the same time it didn't. All I knew was that I felt the same as I did before I died, except now there was no fear, no pain, and no regret.

"But I _feel_the same," I confessed, patting my hands down my chest to indicate that I was real.

"You do, in the beginning."

I lowered my head, defeated. "What now, Potter?" I demanded, glancing back up at him with arms spread wide in supplication. "Now that I'm dead, I cease to exist?"

He shook his head. "No, you exist by simply existing."

I felt like tearing out my hair. "That makes no sense!"

"It will, _eventually_." He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Malfoy, think of me as a guide—"

"A poor guide," I interrupted bitterly.

"—Who only _shows_ you the path. It's you who must take it, alone, and glean what insights you need from the journey itself."

I frowned. "So what happens next?"

"It really depends on you." He uncrossed his arms and let them dangle at his sides. "This isn't the end, if that's what you're thinking—it's just another beginning, another road we must all travel." He took another step towards me. "The question before you now is what to do with this second, third, or one-hundredth chance."

I raised an eyebrow in incredulity. "Hundredth chance?"

He shrugged. "I don't know how many goes you've had at it, Malfoy." He smiled. "The afterlife is a lot like life on earth: we all have choices before us and each decision we make leads to another."

I looked up at him, beginning to comprehend. "So, life and death are simply acts of repetition, doing the same thing over and over until we get it right?" Potter merely tilted his head, saying neither yes or no. "And if I do finally get it right, what then? How will I know if I'm making the most of it?"

He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. I wondered, absently, if I should recoil at his touch, but I didn't.

"Those are all questions that I cannot answer because they are relative to you and the choices you make," he answered, looking me straight in the eye. "I can't tell you if you'll make the most of it. I can't see your future, and I certainly don't know what the meaning of _your_life is."

"Well, Potter, what use are you, then?"

"Very little, apparently," he answered dryly, smiling as he dropped his hand. "Remember, it is our choices that show who we truly are, and only you can decide your own fate." He grinned. "So, you can stay here in limbo, carefully weighing your options, or you can move on, plunging ahead. Whatever you decide, the next step is yours alone to take."

"But move on to where?" I asked.

"_Quo fati ferunt_—wherever fate takes us."

**FIN**

* * *

**Author Notes: **I left the story rather open-ended, like with most short stories attempting to tackle questions concerning the afterlife. It's up to you to interpret the concept(s) how you want and take from it what you need. The persistent theme, however, is that you _cannot_ escape death, so it is up to _you_ to make the most of life (even if granted a second chance in the afterlife). And, yes, this narrative was supposed to be in the past tense, like Draco giving a confession or an account of the facts _after_ his death. ^_^

* * *

_Memento Mori_ is Latin for 'remember that [you must] die'. Figuratively, it is a phrase that reminds you of the inevitability of death.

_Sum quod eris_ is Latin for 'I am what you will be' (i.e. death is unavoidable).

_Amor fati et memento vivere_ is Latin for 'Love fate and remember to live'. It is a Nietzscheian alternative world-view to _memento mori_, and is considered to be more life-affirming and optimistic.

Harry's line, "I'm afraid that the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated", is a modified quote taken from Mark Twain.

Harry's line, "Remember, it is our choices that show who we truly are . . .", is a paraphrased speech that Dumbledore gave to Harry in _The Chamber of Secrets_ (333).


End file.
